


The Romances

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, how they hug, how they kiss, how they smell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-04-04 20:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14027676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: A single person can change everything. For the LI’s, the Warden, Hawke or the Inquisitor, means more to them than they can say. From childhood to present and ever onward, having love in their lives has changed so much for them. The least they can do is give their love in return. An examination of each LI, and their relationship with a Warden, Hawke or Inquisitor who romances them.





	1. Origins

**Alistair**

He’s always been a dog. Unwanted at the proper table, fit for only scraps. There’s some level of safety for him a barn, and he’s never minded sleeping in the hay. He remembers being small, in a room full of adults who knew far better than him. The eyes staring down at him, the shadows on the wall and the things they would speak. Bastard. He learned early what it meant. He didn’t always wear it well. It seemed too heavy, to rough, to fit on his shoulders. Other days it was a second skin. Able to clutch his mother’s necklace under his shirt, spit back defiance at those who would cast him aside. But, he’s only just a dog.

It was almost a relief, when they sent him away. The words stopped. The silence began. He found it was worse to be ignored, denied, rather than be hated. In the deafening empty, he could only scream. Then they would scold him, yell at him, and acknowledge him. The insults became common. Bastard. Unwanted here, unwanted from birth. He still slept in the barn, far more familiar than the unfeeling dormitories. If only he still had the necklace. When Duncan came, it was the first time someone fought for him. Wanted him. Not a bastard. A Warden. Then, Duncan died. He thought it be the same as it was before. He thought he might always be alone.

The Warden puts their hand on his shoulder as they stand beside him. Ruffling a hand through his hair as they smile, walk forward. He cannot do the same. They face Redcliffe, and he thinks he’ll be run out, same as the last time. The Warden stops, looks over their shoulder. They wait for him. Stretches out their hand towards him, invites him forward. Wanted. He does not cower below them, behind them. Learning how to stand, to find safety in other people. To be himself, not a dog. Before they had left Lothering, he plucked a rose. He’ll give it to them. He thinks they might understand.

\---

Happily enthusiastic, affection freely given. Wrapping his arms around his Warden, pulling them in close. He worries he might still smell like the barns he grew up in. A doubt that plagues him, follows him, a doubt unfounded. Alistair smells like the air after the rain, the world waking anew. A garden freshly sewn, earth tended and seeds planted. He holds you as though it might be the last hug ever given, squeezes his Warden ever so tightly. It always seems like he might be one second away from lifting them in his arms, spinning them around. He is safety and warmth, loyalty and a laugh.

His kiss is different, shyer, hesitant. Not that he isn’t enthusiastic. Every kiss feels like the first. As though it might be a dream, for him, to hold his Warden in his hands. Fingertips that trace the line of their jaw, the softness of their cheeks. Brushing back stray strands of hair, nervously licking his lips. Eyes that move from his Wardens to their lips, a question in the action. Always a yes, a tilt forward. And with their answer, a smile. The Warden can feel it pressed against them, the liquid happiness that melts around him.

 

* * *

 

**Leliana**

It’s the only thing she believes in. The last thing she believes in. She cannot doubt it although others do, she cannot falter although others want her to fall. She fears that if she fails in this, the last light of faith will be taken away from her. Once she thought she would never have to fight. That speech, that song, that words would be enough. She knows better now. She has been stripped away, flesh and sinew, examined from the bone. Cruel lessons learned, lessons still yet to be taught. Building herself back up, reaching for what the vision offers her.

She remembers the breaking, most of all. Holding her hand out in begging mercy, taking the blame for sins not her own. The screaming pain of fingers mangled and how would she ever hold the lute again? There are no songs to be sung for the deep, the dark. There are no songs left for Marjolaine. Once, her hair was long. They had cut it when they caught her. She would never grow it again. Things have changed, and this is the only one she lets them see. The glass has shattered. She sees clearly now. Leliana has faced cruelty, but she is not cruel.

Her Warden holds her face in their hands. A kiss to each closed eyelid, fingers threading through her hair. They speak softly about the vision. She believes and so the Warden believes, and that is enough. Enough to link fingers together, to smile, to have faith. All that she has faced has been to steer her onto a path, this path, a winding road that collides with her Warden. She wears flowers in her hair, the grace given by love. If they are to break, then they will break together. No longer will they be alone in the dark.

\---

The first thing she does is smile. Fingertips that trace the edge of her Warden’s face – the pink of cheeks, the curve of their jaw. She holds their face as though she holds her entire world. Softly drifting over shoulders as she steps forward, Leliana’s hands splaying on their back. Pulling them together, her mouth against their shoulder. A kiss, just there, as she holds them, resting her head against theirs. She smells like flower petals and spices, something like cinnamon, sugar and sweet. Gentle laughter against their skin as she steps away, finds their hands with hers, holds them tightly. Still smiling as she leans forward, rubs her nose against theirs.

The kiss is much the same, but with some hidden fire underneath. A flame that grows, burns brightly. She traces the line of shoulder blades, every bump of her Warden’s spine. Memorizing all the things that make them who they are, a feeling she will never forget. So easy to be lost in her lips, the touch of her. That spice again, on her tongue, liquid warmth that flows between them. Her fingers curl at the soft hair at nape of her Warden’s neck. Trust resting on her skin, love in the way she moves.   

 

* * *

 

 

**Morrigan**

She’s always found it better, to be alone. To know oneself is to know expectations. To be by oneself is to not be disappointed, abandoned. Loneliness has ever been her friend. Freedom her ally, and feelings are chains. Anticipate the betrayal and not be hurt. Finding solace in cobwebs, the other desolate creatures of the world. From the bed her mother made, she watches the spider lie in wait. Ever ready, the trap set. Each trespass a rhythm on the web, a warning in the flesh. Wrapping up its prey, eating it whole. Invincible. Deadly. Until Flemeth waves a hand, burns it alive.

As she practices spells, Flemeth puts a hand on her head. There’s almost approval in her eyes, pride in the smile as Morrigan grows stronger. Lessons are learnt, burned into her spine just as the image of the spider. Everything is a tool. Use, or be used. She learns these lessons well, but still she falls prey to what she knows. Flemeth tells her stories, but never the ones she wants to hear. She knows her mother is making designs, spinning the web, and still she walks, triggers the trap. All for the want of something she shouldn’t need.

She touches the leaf, a finger on a drop of morning dew. They will reach the city soon. Webs upon webs, and she does not know the way. The Warden puts a hand on the small of her back, guides her forward. A weakness, this. Her Warden. She is bound in a way she does not bind, all those lessons being unraveled. She does not know the pattern of their web. They take her into their arms and she foolishly hopes that they set no traps. She closes her eyes, leans into their embrace. Anticipate the betrayal. She will leave first. She will not be hurt. 

\---

She _allows_ the Warden to hug her. Rolling her eyes as arms are wrapped around her. She keeps her own at a distance, before letting her hands settle. One, two, pats at the Warden’s back. Morrigan is pine and evergreen, the woods after a midnight rain. Earthy and grounded, something like iron at the edges. Her outside is a warning, protecting an inside that wants to be held. The Warden persists and she is slow to relax into it. To let her shoulders drop, her eyes close. To allow this moment of defenselessness, of protection.

Morrigan kisses much differently. In this, she takes the lead. Tapping fingers underneath her Warden’s chin, lifting their face to hers. Threading hands through their hair, pulling lightly at the same time she pushes forward. She holds their face, fingertips that stroke down their cheek. Capturing lips between teeth, a tongue taking advantage of every inch given. She is venom that sweeps through veins, a kiss that leaves her Warden warm and utterly ruined.  

 

* * *

 

 

**Zevran**

He has lived by looking behind. Watching the steps already taken, the paths he’ll walk again. An endless circle, staring at his own back. At times, he feels like he can reach out and touch. The jagged scars hidden underneath tattoos, a futile attempt to deny what’s been done. What he is, written in his spine. Zevran sits, close enough to the fire but far enough away from the others. He isn’t like them. He did not become himself. He was made. He pulls off his gloves, not of the usual Antivan design, and thinks he might be changing.

A struggle, to admit it to himself. Everything he has been told, taught, screams against it. How many times had he buried one feeling after the other? Easier to laugh at it, than to linger on it. Then, the laughter faltered, failed. He had agreed to the mission, wanting to fail again. Even then, however, he could not make the choice himself. Needing someone to make it for him. Instead of the end he expected, they had invited him to come with them.

He can feel the change inside him. A cage of ribs, breaking open. He wants to bare his heart for his Warden, but he’s still finding the words. Finding some way to hold it in the palm of his hands. They’ve seen the scars on his back, the old burns around his wrists. The marks of a Crow, the tattoos of who he wanted to be. They had put their lips against his skin, pulled a different Zevran free. The fire flickers, the light dampens as they stand before him. They extend their hand towards him. Offering it freely, and he takes it gladly. Hand in hand and his Warden pulls him to his feet.

\---

He pretends not to care, but his Warden knows exactly how much Zevran grooms himself. Washing every bit of his armor after a battle, brushing the little knots out of his hair in the morning. Sharing creams and perfumes with Leliana, bathing at every opportunity. No matter what he does, he can’t get rid of the subtle leather smell. Weaved into his skin, mixed with his scent of the day. He holds with his hands splayed on his Wardens back, pressed tightly against them. Happy as he can be, every inch of him touching them.

Zevran always asks. “May I kiss you, _amore_?” The agreement is barely given before Zevran sweeps an arm around their waist. Pulling his Warden closer, fingers gently touching their neck. To the nape of them, holding them close. His kiss is ever encompassing. He carries the Antivan sun with him, warmth on his tongue. There’s danger in how good he is, how enthusiastic, how he loses himself inside of it. Tearing apart his Warden with that first touch, stitching them back together with his kiss.


	2. Dragon Age 2

**Anders**

He doesn’t remember his name. He buried it long ago. They didn’t deserve to know it. In the burying, he forgets more than just his name. Those first few nights in the Circle were spent tracing fingertips over careful embroidery. He thinks he might have known what his mother looked like, once, but now her face is blank and empty in his memory. It might be a blessing. How can something you can’t remember hurt you? He used to play with the other children in the village. He remembers being dragged away by the Templars. The fear, disgust, on their faces. He doesn’t forget.

He’s reminded every time he meets someone new.  Speak the word mage, and behold their hate. It stirs an anger in him, a rage that sits beside the injustice of it all. What right do they have? What cause has he given for them to spit in his face? For the chains, the dungeons, the year of darkness. In that dark, he dreams of Kirkwall. It presents a goal, a reason, and a purpose to see himself through. A fixed destination. First, he must be free.

Mage, and Hawke’s face doesn’t change. Mage, and Hawke goes with him to the Chantry. Mage, and Hawke stands beside him as he gives Karl the hardest freedom, cruelest cut. Mage, and there are tranquil in the streets with bruises underneath their robes. Mage, and the Templars find reason for the harshest punishments, unfairly given. Mage, and the demon speaks – mage, and justice answers. Hawke takes his hand, asks Anders what he needs. A moment, he needs just a moment. He buries the revolution. They’ll remember the explosion.

\---

Anders almost leans into his Hawke. Tall enough to half bend over, to wrap his arms around their neck. He buries his head into their neck, against their face. Almost like a cat, the way he does it, rubbing temples together. Hawke’s lanky mage, small enough that Hawke can wrap their arms around him with ease. Nestling their face in that cloak of feathers, able to hear the hum of sleeping magic under Anders’s skin. The clean scent of lyrium, the edge of iron from so much time spent in the clinic. Hawke thinks they might buy a bigger tub, something to soak and relax in – together.

Anders’s scruff always accompanies the kiss. Hawke’s hands on his face, fingers curling at his cheeks, while he is content to sweep them into his arms. Whenever Anders kisses them, Hawke feels like they’re living one of Varric’s written kisses. Anders bending Hawke back, practically lifting their leg. Completely engrossed in the act, breathing through someone else’s lungs. In this moment, connected so, Anders can leave all other thoughts behind. Being with Hawke, being himself.

 

* * *

 

**Fenris**

There are monsters etched into his skin. They bite him daily, gnawing and gnashing, eating at his flesh. They are needles that prick away, trying to erase him, replace him, and make him into something he's not. When he gives in to them, when he glows, more than just his monsters scream. There are bodies on the floor, bodies he put there, bodies which will never rise again. There are monsters etched into his skin. Sometimes he thinks he is the monster.

He picks at them at night, digging fingernails into flesh, trying to break free. There is pain, there is blood, and there is laughter at his efforts. Here he shows his chains, ones he will never escape, and cries out in frustration. He huddles on the floor of his stolen refuge, hugging arms to himself and begs, _begs_ , to be free of this, of everything. Then he locks it all away and stands. He clenches a hand into a fist and vows not to show such weakness.

Years later, he breaks this vow. Hawke puts hands on his face, calls him wonderful and everything else crashes away into silence. Their touch banishes the monsters, their words chipping away at the chains. They stand on a precipice and he calls himself Hawke’s because that way it’s easier to be him. He wakes, dreaming of demons, and they tell him he has nothing to be afraid of. Not anymore. He is weaker with Hawke, he is stronger with Hawke, and he thinks himself elf, lover, friend, free.

\---

Rare occasions when he asks, rarer still when he simply acts. Preferring to be pulled in by Hawke, accepting their affections freely. Some part of him still fears that when he asks, Hawke will simply turn away. So his ask is slow. A hand at their hip, pulling part of their shirt. Stepping forward, his head on Hawke’s shoulder. Only when Hawke begins to hug back does he completely close the distance between them. Arms wrapped around them, hands still fisted into their shirt. Mint and evergreen, the cooler edges of the lyrium under his skin. Melting together, holding tightly, hugging warmly.

That same tenderness carries into the kiss. His fingertips, moving softly down Hawke’s arm, skin against skin. Always moving, unable to settle, over Hawke’s shoulder, at their neck, in their hair and it seems like Fenris couldn’t be closer. Pulling Hawke’s bottom lip between his teeth, tongue against tongue. Matching breathing, the quickened beat of his heart. There’s always the smile after. Unable to tear his gaze way from Hawke’s, as though his eyes might lie. As though he cannot believe that they are here, that he is with his Hawke. 

 

* * *

 

**Isabela**

She learned the lie young. Understanding the illusion of love, the deceit of belonging. Taking it into herself, allowing the sea underneath her skin to be molded by it. Dishonesty a most natural skill, and the lie her most cunning weapon. She has carried this weapon from name to name, leaving no time to grieve for the life left behind. Naishe was taken. Isabela was given. For her, there is no use in looking behind. Nothing to gain from guilt, a weakness in the remembering. Ever forward, and may the lie light her way. Some days she struggles with it.

Perhaps she’s still learning to give away Naishe as easily as others had done, see the Isabela that others do. The illusion of fearlessness, the deceit of triumph. Telling herself there is nowhere she belongs, wanting to belong nowhere. The memories swim, the shame lurks. She thinks the sea might save her, distance from as distance does, a boat carrying her away from her own mind. Regret in the form of a book, sin like blood in the water. The sharks circle, but Hawke is no shark.

A hand extended, trust given, and something cuts through the lie. Isabela runs, cheats, steals, but Hawke plants themselves in front of the enemy and tells them that they will not take her. Acceptance of the bereavement, pulling Isabela free from Naishe’s grave. Love in the freedom given, belonging in the arms wrapped around her. Hawke’s affection isn’t a prison, not like others have been. There are no chains, no expectations. Simply Hawke. Simply Isabela.

\---

Sea salt and summer breeze, laughter in the liquid warmth of her. Arms around Hawke’s neck and legs wrapped around their waist. Holding them tightly, the most precious treasure, encompassing them with all of her. Smiling brightly, forehead against forehead, and Hawke is more valuable to her than any amount of gold, better than a fleet of ships. Laughing as Hawke holds her up, making sure Isabela never falls, whirling around together.

Isabela tangles a hand in Hawke’s hair, holds their face close to hers. It always starts with a smile, the brush of hot breath against Hawke’s lips. Fingertips tapping one by one on their cheek, followed by the slightest and fondest pinch. Gently biting Hawke’s bottom lip between her teeth, before kissing in full, the hard press of a kiss, the hotter roll of her tongue. All the waves of Isabela’s endless ocean. Enough to leave Hawke numb and wanting more, leaving a taste of the hottest spices.

 

* * *

 

**Merrill**

She stands among ruins, and wonders. They being dead yet speaketh, and press their hands against broken mirrors. They whisper through the shattered pieces, in a language she does not understand. Not yet. She stands among her people, and despairs. Ghosts as much as the ones in the glass, fragmented and shattered same. So much in what they once were, in what she once was. It flows through her veins and bleeds through the ages. An echo only she can hear. She thinks she might draw the answers from the past, like sickness from a wound. Her people tell her she is selfish, unkind, unworthy. She doesn’t mind. She will make them whole again.

She had found every piece in the dirt and dust. She still bears the marks of it, small cuts in the palm of her hand. In a place so far from anything she calls home, Merrill reconstructs the eluvian. Standing before it, and it reflects only darkness. She presses her hand against it, and feels only cold. Closing her eyes, putting her ear against the glass. She hears them still. Both spirit and demon walk on her grave, and she is no fool. She has learned lessons from both friend and enemy, and will trick the trickster. If only others could believe in her as well.

Hawke hands her the arulin’holm, and smiles. Standing beside her as she works, eyes over the wood that swirls around the base, the wolves and halla same that threaten to break free. Hawke believes. Merrill thinks that they might be the only one who does. Putting a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. Standing before all others in her defense, Hawke speaking words of their trust in Merrill, and her goal. It is all she needs. If she has one, she can save them all.

\---

Merrill is smiles and sunshine, arms extended, running full-tilt towards Hawke. Throwing her arms around their neck, holding tightly and laughing brightly as Hawke whirls them round together in a dizzying circle. Feet finding ground, and Merrill still leans into them. She is nightshade and a warmer breeze, power lurking under the petals. Unwilling to let go, her hands twisted and locked behind their head. Standing on her tip-toes, pink and pleased, rubbing her nose against Hawke’s.   

Tilting her head upwards and the first kiss is a mere peck, hummingbird’s wings against Hawke’s lips. She gains bravery from the first, and kisses them once again. Her finger curls a strand of Hawke’s hair, and she is shifting from foot to foot, anxious and restless. The third presses even deeper, all the weight of her against Hawke, groaning softly into the kiss. Fluttering eyelashes, and her fingertips brush against her lips as she rests on both feet once again.

 

* * *

 

**Sebastian**

The third born, the last born, the least wanted. The heir and the spare, and he, not fit for even the dregs. He remembers the hands of his nurse. Coarse and rough, fingers calloused from the work given to her. They were the hands that held him, that cared for him, that brushed the hair from his brow and comforted him after a nightmare. He often wonders what his mother’s hands might be like. He does his best to be perfect. To hold his chin high, to study hard, to excel at everything given to him. The shadows of his brothers yet hide him, and he cannot find the sun. So, Sebastian lingers in the dark.

A simple thing, not to try. To drink and boast, to use the last licks of influence to win him hollow victories. Flesh and fletched, and they call him a disgrace. A useless weight, an anchor to his family’s reputation. He is but a name and nothing more, and the bitterness grows. Sent away like a dog, to another city, a different institution. Guards at the door of his prison, this Chantry cage. Told to give up his life, be less than even a name. The Chantry gives him a place to be less than useless, to be something greater than a shadow. But the rope yet slips from the dark, wraps around his neck and drags him back. The third born, the last born, the only Vael left.

There was a time he’d have given everything to be Prince, but that time has passed. He avenges his family, but finds the deaths that follow unsavory. Empty. A Vael, but not quite so. He has traded one prison for another and still he craves freedom. He thinks he finds it in the palm of Hawke’s hand. A gentle smile and reassurance that no matter what he chooses, they will stand beside him. Sebastian is a better man now, than who he once was, but he can be better still. Mistakes he has made, mistakes he will make, but now he will not be alone.

\---

The smell of candles, the softer scent of incense. Sebastian is always clean and well-groomed, straight-back and the smooth line of his shoulders. Around Hawke, he blushes. Stumbles over his words, shyly reaches for their hand. Raising it to his mouth, pulling them in. An arm around their waist, a ghost of a kiss against their cheek. Still, that hand in his, linking fingers as together they softly sway. Allowing Hawke to rest their head on his shoulder, and his head against theirs. Closing eyes and softly humming, some forgotten hymn of peace.

He taps fingers underneath Hawke’s chin, raises their face to meet his. Curling fingers at their cheek, while his other hand slowly moves against Hawke’s arm. Comforting circles of his thumb as he leans close, taking a moment to brush nose against nose. The kiss is sweet, as though he is asking permission for more. Permission given, he gives everything to it, surrenders to it, to Hawke. A hand splayed at Hawke’s back, holding them close as he softly groans.


	3. Inquisition

**Blackwall**

He is given orders. A good soldier, he does not question. As he sinks the blade into her belly, he remembers what he was before. Nothing. Pride turned him away from a chevalier. Greed made him a mercenary. Envy made him want more. As he pulls the blade free, blood on metal, he remembers the threat. He was nothing before, can be made nothing again. He is given orders. A good soldier, he carries them out. He takes his men with him to do the deed, and they stand together, bonded in blood. Shame takes him when the bodies are found. Fear, when better soldiers are sent after him. A coward, as he runs. A nothing, as he hides.

In a small place, filled with small people, he fights. For what, he does not know. He sees a wrong, and feels he must right it. Perhaps he thinks it might undo all the wrong he has done. Blood on his knuckles, and a Grey Warden sees more in him than what he is. When the offer is given, the chance to become a Warden, he does not hesitate. Forget the past, right the wrong. When this chance is taken away, the Warden slain, Thom Rainier dies with him. A mockery of Blackwall stands in his place and he can’t forget. Pride makes him try. Greed moves him forward. Envy makes him want more. Regret, and he remains haunted.

The name hurts as much as the deed, and the bond cannot be broken. A mockery of Blackwall, but wanting more, he peels back the lies. The hurt on the Inquisitor’s face and they say they would have understood. Shame takes him as they pace outside his cell. Fear, as he’s taken from the prison. A coward, as he’s put in chains. A nothing, as he kneels before their judgement. The Inquisitor tells him he must take up his true name, his true banner. Face the past, right the wrong. At their side, the name hurts a little less. At their side, he is Rainier once again. 

\---

He throws himself wholeheartedly into every single hug. Wrapping arms around them, holding them close. Half the time, lifting the Inquisitor into his arms, burying his face into the crook of their neck. He exudes heat, a comforting warmth, the scent of hay, the sweetness of barns. Around the edges, the sword oil, that iron and metal of armor. Blackwall is a wall indeed, unmoving and strong, keeping all other things at bay. In his arms, it’s so easy to forget the rest of the world, all the things outside of the hug.

He chews mint sometimes, absentmindedly. Something he does, while he works at making wood eagles, figures. They can taste it faintly on his tongue, along with the terrible beer of the tavern. His beard tickles against their face, but he keeps it clean, soft. He gathers them up, and it’s as though they’re being devoured. So gently, so lovingly, but devoured nonetheless. They don’t mind. 

 

* * *

 

**Cassandra**

She is young as she stands in a hallway empty, as soldiers put hands on her shoulders. Taking her to a cage made of gilded gold, blankets silk and chains of brightest silver. She is young as she is told that her family chose the wrong side, that her parents are never coming back. Living in a place she doesn’t know, under the protection of someone she barely recognizes. She is young as she stands beside her brother in a city made for the dead. They are the living, the ones left, and she begins to understand.

She is older as they lay their burdens on her shoulders. She is told she is meant to be a dragon. Proud and strong, fierce and unyielding. She is told she is meant to be a lady. Polite and kind, courteous and soft. At times, she tries to be one or the other. At times, she tries to be both. None of it matters. She is older as the horse gains on him, she is older as the scythe swings down, and she is older as she watches her brother die. Holding his head in her hands, and she promises herself. She will not bend, she will not break. She is older as she makes a place for herself out of metal and flame.

She is older, she is younger, and she forces herself to the present as she stands on the battlements. Hand on the hilt of her sword, the other resting on cold stone. She looks forward because she cannot afford to look back, to second guess, to rob her life of meaning. All the things she has done, all the things she will do, the wrong she must right. She is a lady when she speaks harshly to diplomat and noble. She is a dragon even as she fights dragons in the field. Cassandra is herself with the Inquisitor’s hand on her back, someone who expects her to be nothing less.

\---

She tries to hide how downright delighted she is as the Inquisitor draws near for a hug. Arms open wide and she’s holding the frown – at least until those arms are actually around her. Smiling against them as she wraps her arms around them, laughing as they sway from side to side. Foot against foot, head against head, and she’s shy underneath their gaze. Cassandra is wild raspberries, green mint leaves, and the edge of blade oil. She’s candles under moonlight, staying up late to read by stars, and all the edges of parchment.

She smiles bright as the Inquisitor tips her back. A testing, teasing, glance, and the faintest blush on her cheeks. Sweetness in the kiss of her, deserving of the laughter in every inch of her. Lucky, to have her and wanting to give her everything she’s ever wanted. The Inquisitor will settle for saving the world for her, and tells her so. Tells her to save them a kiss after. Earning a punch and deeper red, and Cassandra tells them, “I can’t believe you remember that line.” The Inquisitor reads every book she gives them.

 

* * *

 

**Cullen**

He wants to be one of them and he doesn’t see it yet. The rust that creeps in around the edges of shining armor, the blood that drips from a flaming sword, the poison in their veins. It feels safer where they are, these Templars, so protecting and proud. He wants to be one of them and can’t see it yet. He doesn’t hear the sickly song in their heads, see the blue in their blood, the chains around their necks. He practices in the barn, a wooden sword against a wooden dummy, pretends himself a shield in the dark. He reads the Chant by candlelight, mumbling the words in his mouth, remembering it in the morning. He wants to be one of them and doesn’t know what that means. 

He remembers the first taste of it. The older Templars holding him down, the needle in the Chantry sister’s hands. Finding the vein, piercing through skin. Coursing through his blood, seeping into his bones. A rot, an infection, one of his own choosing. He is one of them and doesn’t want to see it. He knows his vows and the vows he keeps. He is good and faithful, untested, unshaken. When the storm comes, it does not start with rain. It starts with thunder. The thumbs pressed against his eyes. Hands that sink inside of him. Shape him, twist him, break him. Thoughts not his own, speech strange on his tongue. He knows his vows and the vows he keeps, but he stays broken.

It’s made clear in flame and in rubble, and he sees it far too late. He feels the chains choke tight around his throat, squeeze in his lungs. There’s rust on his armor, blood on his sword, poison in his veins, a sickly song in his head. He keeps a vial in a locked box, and the pain is a reminder. In the ruin of who he once was, he pulls at the strings of someone different. The Inquisitor puts a hand on his chest, helps him find something worthy. Safe and solid. They bury the box in the courtyard. Protecting and proud. They tell him he can do this. He feels like quiet. Their hands on his cheeks, silencing the song. Stronger when they hold him. 

\---

Cullen leans into them. Holding them close, holding them tight, burying his face into the crook of their neck. It’s as though every touch is a parting, a last chance, and this is the only way to show them. How much he wants them, how much he needs them, how much he loves them. Closing eyes, breathing in the scent of elderflower and oak moss. Some stable tree, whose roots are far more fragile that they seem. The Inquisitor keeps him grounded as his hands tremble on their back.

He loses himself in the kiss. An arm around their waist, pulling them in. The stubble of him tickles against them, and he can feel the smile in it. He thinks of the Inquisitor and only the Inquisitor, all other thoughts are erased under their touch. They curl fingers against his cheeks, still tickled, and he can’t help but smile with them. Tipping them back slightly, making them hold onto him for balance, nose touching nose as they laugh together.

 

* * *

 

**Dorian**

Each time he loves him, he thinks it might be the last. The last lingering smile around the edge of his mouth, of a gaze that shifts from his to want of a kiss. Of a head that tilts, nose bumping against nose. Warm palm at his cheek, warmer breath on his lips. He worries each kiss will be the last time he kisses him. Arms wrapping around him, holding him close, hand splayed against his back. Between shoulder blades, those last remnants of wings, and there’s some desperation in the way they exchange breath. From lungs to lungs, giving bits of himself on his tongue, taking his in return. He touches him as though each touch is the last time.

Savoring the mornings spent next to him. Sunlight on skin, his head in the crook of his neck. Memorizing the stray strands of hair that slip across his face. Each morning could be the last. Wanting the nights spent at his side. Hands on skin, his mouth on his neck. Memorizing the way he runs a hand through his hair, the coy smile he gives. Needing the moments spent in sleep, legs tangled up together, wrapped up in one another. Eyes opening and he thinks it could be the last. One morning he will wake, one dream he might take, and he will realize.

Dorian loves him, and thinks it cannot last. It will end something like the others. With a quiet, a moment, fingertips slipping away. Better to be alone than to be together. Better to be unhappy than to be yourself. Hiding away, unwanted, unseen. He memorizes the line of his shoulders, the shape of his back. Each time, he has loved him for the last time. Kissed him for the last time. Touched him for the last time. 

\---

It’s always the Inquisitor who reaches first, who pulls Dorian into the embrace. Arms around him, holding him close and Dorian doesn’t quite know what to do. Not at first. Slowly letting his hands rest against his back, pulling himself closer. Head resting against head, feeling the Inquisitor breathe against him. Such casual affection, things he could do with no one else before now. Dorian is lavender and spice, fragrant and with an edge. He eases into the hug, holding him tightly as they sway together.

This, this is where he excels. Dorian always smiles first. It crosses his lips, finds its way into his eyes. His gaze never leaves the Inquisitor’s. Reaching for his waist, meeting in the middle. Nose against nose, leaning forward, and he keeps his hands steady at his Inquisitor’s hips. Fingertips that tap a trail up his back at the first touch of lip against lip. Fiercely given on the inhale, exhaling want, sharing air on the next. There’s so much in a kiss, more than words can tell. To do it in front of others, to tell the world: he is mine, I am his.

 

* * *

 

**Iron Bull**

Ashkaari. Ben-Hassrath. Hissrad. He’s had many names, earned them all. Names that are armor, a burden glorious and heavy. They put the sword in his hands, and he learns it quickly. They give him a mission, he fulfills his duty. Under the Qun, he is worthy. Some dragon fire licks the inside of his ribs, this cage he holds closed, but the Qun keeps him from burning. Into the fray, he fights. Deep in the jungles of Seheron, he despairs. There’s blood in the grooves of his axe, of both friend and foe. Those who would betray the Qun, those who have betrayed the Qun, and he feels himself falter. He has been a butcher for too long.

Mercenary. Charger. The Iron Bull. He takes on more names, some given, and some taken. Carving out a life unlike any other he’s known, far away from the Qun. In the Qun, he still believes. Hearing the whispers, reporting them back to masters who cannot see him. Who do not know if he fulfills his duty. They do not speak back to him, and the flames still lick at him. Beginning to burn, to ache, a hurt without a reason he can place. Under the Qun, he is worthy. When the order comes, he knows he cannot disobey. The flames will take him, otherwise.

There is worthiness of a different kind, serving the Inquisitor. He has been too long without instruction, takes direction gladly. These orders are not meant to be orders. A choice, in each one – serve, or do not serve. There is no punishment and the Inquisitor still thinks him worthy. The Qun offers him a different choice. Inquisition. Bull. Tal-Vashoth. He’s had many names, earned them all. Some given, and some taken. He thinks he likes Kadan the best.

\---

In this, as in all other things, he is enthusiastic. The Inquisitor thinks he might hoist them onto their shoulders, or at the very least, break their ribs. Squeezing tightly, laughing brightly, and each hug ends in another hug. Bull’s touch is constant, reassuring, there when the Inquisitor needs it most. Hands splayed at their back, safe against the beating of his heart. Bull is earth and rock, the ground beneath their feet. Soil that can be tilled for something more, the earnest and honest Kadan underneath.

The kiss is fire and passion, playful all the same. Warm and warmer, with Bull nothing is ever half-done. From the joy in the first moments, the want in the middle, the love and longing by the end. His hands all over their body, meant to keep them close, keep them knowing that they – _his Inquisitor_ – is the one for him. He has spent so long searching for something he could not name, finds it in the heart of another.

 

* * *

 

**Josephine**

They call it a game. The stakes are freely forgotten when she finds it easy to play, an amusement, a laugh. The board, the pieces, and she, not seeing behind it all. A pawn in some larger scheme, moved by some greater power, meant to be sacrificed. Pushing against it all, and there’s silk underneath her palms. Josephine does not fall, but he does. Reaching out towards each other as balance tips, as she can only watch. His head, dashed against the bottom of those steps. She still feels the silk against her trembling fingertips, the sleeve that slipped through her grasp, and the knife rests in the wood at her feet. A waste, and no one else cares. Laughing as they sip their champagne, tell her that it is only the _game_. She knows she’s not meant for this.

Innocence falls from her shoulders, and a cloak of diplomacy takes its place. She learns guile, persuasion, and all the ways to ply a tongue. She smiles at each turn, gracious and patient, but her kindness is never ignorance. Each promise is backed by knowledge, written word and secrets taken. Alliances forged, disputes solved by force of her will, voice and letter. She takes pride in it all, and remembers a life that has been long passed. Her fingers never forget, a conscience that cannot be soothed, but it will not hold her back, makes her work harder for a future he will never see.

Through the Inquisition, she finds an acceptable challenge. Finding coin where there is none to be had, weaving careful strings between legions. Seeking out common ground, weaving around the masses. Tying them all together for one common goal, greater purpose. There are times, behind her desk and buried in parchment, that she wants a sword in her hand. Regret, in no proper training, of that stain of violence that she could not wipe away. What good are words when they are out on the field – fighting the battles that her quill could not solve? A worry that passes into relief as the Inquisitor steps through the door, arms open wide and her name on their lips.

\---

Jasmine and daffodil, some open field in some distant place, sunflower bright. Josephine’s smile lights a darkened room, battered heart, her hands on their arms. Slowly winding around them, banishing the darkness that seeps from their shadow. The Inquisitor is quick to return it, arms around her waist, lifting her up into their arms. She laughs brightly, holds tightly, whispers words meant only for their ear.

A hand against their nape, pulling them close, fingers at those soft wisps of hair. Fiercely kissed, squeezed against their lips, quickly given and nose bunched against nose. Laughter as they properly align, as they sway together. Footsteps moving to music shared between only them, and this second kiss is softer, pliant. It gives way to the next, and the next, and Josephine, so eager to give them all and more.

 

* * *

 

**Sera**

Sera was never an agreeable girl, but she was, once. Hands on her back, on her shoulders, and they are hurried through the streets. Finding an abandoned cellar while the nobles lock their gates and their doors. Street rats and urchins alike, they huddle together in the dark. As the soldier closes the cellar hatch, he tells them not to make a single noise. Sera was never quite the quietest girl, but she was, once. She puts hands over her mouth and listens as Denerim burns around them. The screech of the darkspawn, the answering call of the soldiers. They scream, they yell, they charge, and draw the darkspawn away from the townsfolk. In the morning, Denerim is smoldering ash, and those soldiers line the streets. Sera was never quite the gentlest girl, but she was, once.

She finds a bow and starts from nothing. Painting boxes with targets, cutting her fingers on arrowheads. The others laugh as she practices, tell her she’s better suited for servant work. She is no elf, but she’s no human either and when Sera cuts her hair, she thinks she might cut her ears too. She brings a bow and the others laugh, but her arrows begin to find targets. The next time they laugh, she finds better targets. She stands for herself now, when she might have stood for nothing before, and thinks she could stand for the rest.

Sera finds Friends, belongs to something more than herself. She listens in all the right places, speaks to all the right people. Every arrow is loosed with a shout, a scream, a yell, a charge, and draws the attention towards her. She will not go quietly, not go gently, and Sera will never be nothing. A hand at her back, on her shoulder, and the Inquisitor pulls her to safety. Laughing as they fight together, loud as loud can be. Sera was, once, but Sera is, now, and finds acceptance and pride from her Inky, Buckles, Shiny, Teetness, Tadwinks, Honey Tongue.

\---

Sera shouts as she leaps into her arms, arms out and legs wrapped around her waist. Laughing as she throws her head back, and the Inquisitor is worried for a minute that she might drop her. Spinning around together as Sera whoops and cheers, finally wraps her arms around her neck. Forehead pressed hard against forehead and Sera is still wiggling and squirming, cooing out nickname and oozing syrupy love in between delighted giggles.

Peppering her face with kisses, Sera delights in the laughter of her lover. Covering every inch of her cheeks, down to the tip of her nose. Over forehead and brow, a teasing nibble at her earlobe. Squeezing her face together as she plants the kiss, sways as the Inquisitor holds on. Sera is the sea, an ocean of waves, and her kiss is much the same. Salt and salted, caramel and candy, sweet and sweeter. A smaller kiss after the longer one, the signature of Sera, making sure that her love lingers.

 

* * *

 

**Solas**

He stands on the outer edge, stares into bottomless depths. A desert around him, some certain death. Something worse waits behind, follows at his heel. A single misstep and he will fall, fail. This endless chasm was dug so long ago. From its very core came everything that was, everything that is, and everything that could be. Pouring with possibility, it overflowed into the hands of the greedy and they hoarded its great treasures. There’s only one choice. He thinks it’s the right one. He casts a veil, feels it tear at the very heart of him. Solas sleeps, and a history different than the one he remembers is written.

He wakes into a world not his own. Some distorted image of what he left behind, a mirror darkly, sickly, broken. Pale imitations, parchment thin. Ink that bleeds through, stains all it touches. He did this. He did _this_. Overcome with grief and guilt, he sinks in an ocean of it. Wallowing in all the darkest places, the deepest grave, and knows this cannot stand. Clawing back to the surface, ragged and bloodied, he lays careful plans. He will make it right. He will fix his mistake. But, he isn’t strong enough.

He finds strength in the spine of them, the responsibility resting on their shoulders. Another mistake, another burden he placed on them. The Inquisitor does not falter, fall, fail, strives towards the same goal. To make it right. In the Inquisitor, he finds ghosts become real. Touch solid, words spoken. In his mistake, some solitary flower has bloomed. Regret, in that he must pluck it. All its splendor, all its wonder, and Solas mourns. He asks the Inquisitor to turn away from him. He does not want them to see what he becomes. The monster he knows he is.

\---

He is slow to ease into it. Startled at the first, the arms around him, and the cheer in which the Inquisitor hugs him. It’s as though he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. Soon he softens, shoulders relaxing, not quite so stiff. A smile that spreads as he hugs them back, although he is quick to break it. The scent of him lingers, lavender and lilac, but some deeper earth underneath. Rich soil, roots that spread far. When the Inquisitor leaves, they do not see the way he ponders it, his arms around himself, wondering at the ghost of their touch.

To kiss is another matter altogether. Those times when Solas is swept in the wave of feeling, unabashed and unafraid, taking the Inquisitor into his arms. To hold them tightly, bend them back, a leg between theirs. Slipping a tongue into their mouth, feeling them melt into his embrace, into his kiss. Always some satisfied smile afterwards, and then, another kiss, just there, on their cheek. Some signature, a lasting memory, a mark to call them his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [ @jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/).


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